“And more shame for them,” cried Polly, indignantly.
“Well, I don’t know,” said Tom; “I’ve rather a liking for old Humphrey. He taught me.”
“He’s a nasty wicked old man,” cried Polly. “He tried to kiss me one day when he was tipsy.”
“He did?” cried Tom, breaking his pipe in the angry rush that seemed to come over him.
“Yes, Tom, and I boxed his ears,” said the little woman, shivering again, for the fit of jealous anger did not escape her searching eyes.
“That’s right, lass. I’m dead on for a new master now.”
Then a discussion arose as to the baby’s name, Tom wanting it to be called after his wife, who was set upon Julia, and she carried the day.
“There,” said Tom, “if anybody had told me a couple of years ago that any bit of a thing of a girl was going to wheedle me, and twist me round her finger, and do what she liked with me, I should have told him he didn’t know what he was talking about.”
“And you don’t mind, Tom, dear?”
“No,” he said, smiling, “I don’t mind, if it pleases thee, my lass.”